Fiction

The Photograph





The watery light of a late October sun, peers sulkily from behind rolling clouds, it's weak rays, diluted through the thinning branches of an overhanging chestnut tree, are caught in the lustrous reflection of a sleek, lovingly polished Ford Anglia, circa 1962.



Like a giant piece of jewelry on a gnarled and calloused hand, the car sits on the shabby, litter-strewn street beside a cracked and sunken pavement, looking out of place.  Its lightning bolt angularity suggests action, speed, and the possibility of wingless flight across vast pristine landscapes. A wide cream colored stripe runs majestically along the length of its glittering chrome sides and flicks out like a newly starched collar.  The chrome bumper gleams as luxuriantly as a pepsodent smile.



At the front of this metallic dazzle, amid a brightly colored swirl of chestnut leaves, whipped into frenzy by what appears to be a gusty northeasterly, stands a handsome young woman.  She is impressively tall.  She could easily rest an elbow on the roof of the car without over extending her long limbs, but instead she leans proprietarily against it.  One narrow, trinket laden hand lies decorously on her jutting hip, while the other holds a tiny infant against her thin broad shoulder.  With her chin lightly caressing the cheek of her sleeping infant, she looks up from beneath an enormous ball of frizzy hair with a complex expression - something between weary pride and round-eyed impatience. 



A closer look might discern a trace of humor about the upturned corner of the mouth.  The infant, plump and curled like tightly packed sausage, eyes closed firmly against the metallic glare, snoozing and oblivious of the willowy beauty that comforts her, purses her lips, giving the fleeting look of disapproval which babies are famous for.